A Little Trouble in the Big Wahoonie
by PencilMonkeyGaiden
Summary: Sam Vimes is getting really bloody tired of all these loons in silly costumes, and especially this so-called Mr. Spish. (Or whatever he's actually called, when he's so-called.)


**A Little Trouble in the Big Wahoonie**

**Summary:**  
Sam Vimes is getting really bloody tired of all these loons in silly costumes, and especially this so-called Mr. Spish. (Or whatever he's actually called, when he's so-called.)

**Chapter I**

Sam Vimes sighed, the exhaustion of a long night's work weighing him down, and shook his head. On top of everything else, he had to deal with this bunch of loons in silly costumes. As if he didn't have enough real work that needed to get done, already, this group of circus freaks just had to trundle into his town and start acting like they owned the place.

"So, Mr. Spish," Vimes grumbled, lighting a cigar. "You've had a busy night, I see."

"It's pronounced "Slash", actually," said the bearded weirdo, trying his best to look calm and unruffled, despite his current situation.

(Considering that this situation involved dangling upside-down by his ankle, which was trapped in Constable Dorfl's massive clay fist, he was only moderately successful in his efforts to appear unfazed. For one thing, regardless of much he might try to look cool as a cucumber, all the blood rushing to the guy's head was turning his face bright red.)

"Are you _sure_ you've never heard of me? Jack Slash, spelled with an A, like "assassin"," he cheerfully went on. "Rhymes with-"

His snooty remarks were cut off when Dorfl decided to make a comment of his own, and shook the man like a rag doll.

Things went flying out of his sleeves, and trouser legs, and from pockets and pockets and yet more pockets. Things that gleamed like polished metal in the moonlight, and not the expensive-looking kinds of gold or silver metal that Vimes would expect to find in the pockets of a professional Guild-licensed thief; more like the sharp-looking kind of steel implements that might be found in the pockets of the _other_ kind of criminal that made a habit of keeping metal items stashed in their underwear... and this so-called "Jack Slash" did not look like the sort of madman that the Assassin's Guild would allow stepping foot within twenty yards of their fancy clubhouse, these days.

Most of the sharp metal things that Dorfl's emphatic jostling sent tumbling out of Slash's pockets made a variety of different _ting_ and _plinggg_ and _clank_ and _tinkle_ noises, when they landed. In accordance with the cosmic laws of comedic timing, some of the heavier carving knives in the collection even made sounds that might have rhymed with "Jack Slash" - sounds like "crash", or "smash", or other loud and unpleasant words that ended with "-ash".

"I Apologize For The Interruption, Mister Vimes," Constable Dorfl intoned, red light flickering in his eyes and his mouth. "But The Prisoner Was About To Harm Himself, And It Is Part Of My Duties To Ensure The Safety And Well-Being Of All Prisoners, While They Are In The Custody Of The Ankh-Morpork City Watch."

"H-harm myself?" Slash said groggily, still looking slightly dazed from the sudden golem-handling. "What on earth are you talking about? Why would I do something like that?"

"Much as it pains me to do so, I'll have to agree with Mr. Slush on this one," Vimes said, ignoring the mumbled objections coming from said prisoner. ("It's pronounced "Slash"!")

"He didn't look like an upset person, who was about to cut himself," Vimes went on, glaring mildly at the man's upside-down goatee. "My impression is that he looked like an _underhanded_ person, who was about to _attempt_ to cut _me_."

(Really, a _goatee?_ Was this Slash character one of those idiots who thought that trying to make themselves look a bit like the Patrician would somehow _magically_ make them as cunning and devious as him, too? Good grief, Vetinari could run rings around an uppity snot like this one, even with all four limbs tied behind his back and while fully asleep. A truly cunning bastard like Havelock Vetinari could do infinitely more dangerous things with knives than merely cut people with them... Open his daily mail, for example.)

"That Is Correct, Mister Vimes," Dorfl rumbled. "The Prisoner Was Making Furtive Movements Towards One Of His Hidden Blades, Indicative Of An Impending Attempt To Cause Bodily Harm To One Of The Watchmen Present."

"That is a slanderous allegation!" Slash piped up. "I would _never_-"

He flailed and wobbled wildly, as Dorfl shook him again. Even more knives went flying, dislodged from their hiding places concealed about his person.

"Much Like He Was Doing, Just Now," said Dorfl. "Therefore, If The Prisoner Had Succeeded In Attacking You, Mister Vimes, He Would Be In Immediate Danger Of Suffering A Sudden And Inexplicable "Accident", While Resisting Arrest."

Vimes quirked an eyebrow. "I didn't think you'd be the sort to threaten people with quote-unquote accidents, Constable Dorfl?"

"Indeed, I Am Not," said the golem. "But Other Members Of The Watch May Be... Far More Clumsy, And Prone To Suddenly Tripping While Carrying A Hot Drink Down To The Cells, For Example."

Slash cleared his throat. "Listen, ah... Mister Vimes, was it?"

Vimes narrowed his eyes, chewing on his panatela. "That's _Commander_ Vimes to you, Mr. Squish."

"It's pronounced _Slash_," the bearded man whined. "Haven't we been over this already? It's Slash, spelled with an A, like in "arson"."

"Well, as Sergeant Colon might say: I won't have you arson around in my city." Vimes scowled. "As for how you spell your name, you should count yourself lucky if the duty officer puts less than three extra letters in it, when they book you."

He waved a hand loosely in the direction of the aging buildings surrounding them. "This is Ankh-Morpork, where you're free to do whatever you want on paper, including spelling and grammar... and so is everyone else."

"What a delightful concept, Commander," Slash smirked. Hanging upside-down, the lunatic's grin looked much like the angry frown that Vimes felt on his own expression.

"You know, you seem like an eminently dependable kind of man, Commander," Slash purred. "A _family_ man, even. What would you-"

_shake shake shake shake_

_ting plinggg clank tinkle CRASH_

"Look, will you stop doing that?!" Slash sputtered, swaying in Dorfl's grip. "If you keep doing that, you're going to make me throw up! Besides, I wasn't even reaching for a weapon, this time!"

"No... But You Were Trying To Put Words In The Head Of Mister Vimes," Constable Dorfl boomed. "Your Vomitus Can Be Washed Off, But Other Kinds Of Bile Will Always Leave A Stain."

"Putting words in my head, eh?" Vimes shifted the slim cigar hanging from his lips, jaw working as the panatela was moved from one corner of his mouth to the other. "So, Mr. Slash is the sort who enjoys playing mind games, is he?"

Dorfl nodded solemnly. "Believe Me, I Know The Type."

Slash glared up at the golem. "Is that so? Well, what about...? Maybe you should... Haven't you ever...?"

The bearded man's reddened face grew steadily more befuddled and alarmed, as he babbled his odd nonsense. "...Who _are_ you?! _What_ are you?!"

"Ah," Dorfl said gustily. "Deep Philosophical Questioning. Another Topic That I Am Quite Familiar With. If You Ever Find Any Answers, I Would Be Happy To Debate Them With You."

"What?! No! That's not..." Slash wailed, staring helplessly at the golem. "How is this possible?! Why can't I get a grip on you?!"

Vimes held his cigar, tapping a short length of ash off its end. "Looks like Constable Dorfl already has a pretty firm grip on _you_, Mr. Swoosh."

"_SLASH!_ My name is _Jack Slash_," the bearded man screamed, face almost apoplectically purple. "Get it right!"

"I Believe The Prisoner Is Referring To The Concept Of A Figurative Grip," said Dorfl. "He Is Trying To Put Words In My Head, As Well, And Is Distressed After Discovering That This Tactic Will Not Work On Me."

"Oh, really?" Slash sneered. "And why is that, Mr. Clay-Man? Hmm? Are walking, talking piles of pottery immune to the powers of conversation? Is your head as empty as it looks? Just a glorified flowerpot, that's learned to talk like a parrot?"

Dorfl raised his free hand, and tapped the side of his head with a broad finger. Each tap brought a ringing noise from the clay, loud and clear.

"Yes, In A Very Literal Sense, My Head Is Empty," he boomed. "But Is It Not Said: "The Unencumbered Mind May Bear The Heaviest Thoughts"?"

Vimes raised his eyebrows. "I've never heard that saying, before."

"It Is A New Saying," Dorfl replied. "I Said It, Just Now."

Slash gaped at him for a minute, mouth hanging open, before he recovered enough to reply. "O-oh, yeah? But if your head has so much vacant space, what's to stop people from "putting words" in there?"

Dorfl lowered his hand, tapping himself on the chest, next to the outline of an Ankh-Morpork watchman's badge emblazoned on his clay. This time, the ringing noise caused by his tapping was even deeper, like a gong.

"As The Saying Goes: Words In The Heart Can-"

"Oh, spare me the platitudes," Slash grumbled, sulking upside-down with his arms crossed. "A policeman who's impervious to cutting weapons, _and_ completely unaffected by cutting remarks? I know that some people say that any cape might meet an opponent whose power is a hard counter to their own, but this is just _unfair!_"

A/N:

Apparently, people in certain parts of Britain use the slang word "spish" as an abbreviation of "suspicious". This seems like an ideal nickname for a chronically shady character like Jack Slash.

I've got ideas for encounters between various Disc residents and several members of the Slaughterhouse Nine, so far.

(**SPOILERS:** Shatterbird vs. the Troll Breccia, Siberian vs. Nanny Ogg and Greebo, Burnscar vs. Sybil Ramkin-Vimes, Crawler vs. one of C.M.O.T. Dibbler's finest sausages-inna-bun... I'm tempted to let Cherish try to enslave Foul Ole Ron, but that might be a bit too cruel and sadistic. After all, Cherish isn't really one of the absolute worst people in Worm, and probably hasn't deserved to suffer a fate as awful as encountering Foul Ole Ron's Smell up close and personal.)

If anyone has different suggestions for suitably amusing match-ups, I'd be glad to hear 'em.


End file.
